


My Object All Sublime

by airspaniel



Series: Discipline [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Collars, D/s, Discipline, Leather Kink, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2010-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:19:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sherlock doesn't ask, not with words, but he'll put the collar in John's hands and wait expectantly; and the instant the leather touches his skin he exhales like a weight has been lifted.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	My Object All Sublime

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my fic, [Distraction](http://archiveofourown.org/works/113584), and will definitely make more sense if you read that one first. Eternal thanks to my beta, [](http://drunken-hedghog.livejournal.com/profile)[**drunken_hedghog**](http://drunken-hedghog.livejournal.com/), who, as far as I'm concerned, is made of fine wine and gourmet chocolates. Comments/crit always welcome!
> 
>  _ETA:_ Now available [in Chinese](http://www.jjwxc.net/onebook.php?novelid=905137)! Thanks to joyceeeee_e. ^_^

It's not every day, but it's often enough.

It's also never John's idea.

As much as he enjoys having some measure of control in this relationship; as satisfying as he finds it and, let's be honest, how _stunning_ the image is, John is never the one to ask for it.

Sherlock doesn't ask either, not with words, but he'll put the collar in John's hands and wait expectantly; and the instant the leather touches his skin he exhales like a weight has been lifted.

John supposes it has. It can't be easy, being Sherlock Holmes. That dizzying intellect, and all the responsibility attendant; all that pressure to find the solution _now now faster_. Most of it coming from himself.

Not to mention how heavy that ego must be.

But that's all pushed aside, laid to rest as securely as the buckle at the back of Sherlock's neck, for as long as the collar is on.

"On your knees, then," John says simply, and Sherlock complies in one fluid movement. He stays there, kneeling on the kitchen floor while John does the washing up. From time to time, John dries his hands perfunctorily on the tea towel slung over his shoulder, and drops one almost idly into his hair.

Sherlock glares at him from under lowered lashes for the way his still damp fingers catch and pull, and John lets him get away with it because it is slightly annoying.

He tends to let him get away with a lot, but there are limits.

\-----

Not only does Sherlock own a riding crop, he also has three floggers of various sizes, a thick wooden paddle with a leather grip, and an honest to god _bullwhip_. He keeps them in his bedroom, strewn across the floor amongst the dirty clothes and the random detritus of past experiments on the side of his bed.

If John hadn't seen him in the morgue firsthand, he might've suspected Sherlock of being some sort of sadomasochistic sex fiend.

He isn't, of course. That would be far too common. Too _ordinary_.

It isn't sexual, what they're doing. Not exactly. Not deliberately. Arousal is an occasional side-effect, and John would be lying to himself if he said it doesn't turn him on; that he doesn't conjure up the memories later, after the collar's come off. After he's retreated to the second floor, alone, and he's lying in bed; stroking himself slowly to the thought of Sherlock's pale throat bound in leather, his head bowed, his dark curls soft and thick around John's fingers.

In the moment, he doesn't think of orgasm. Doesn't think about sex at all, not even when Sherlock is bare to the waist, save for the collar.

Not even when he says, "Everything," and Sherlock doesn't hesitate in the slightest, working his long, elegant hands at his own belt, folding his clothing neatly as he removes it, piece by piece. Not even when Sherlock is bent over his lap, naked and waiting.

"Count them," John says; and Sherlock does, his voice a little shaky, but clear over the loud, harsh smack of flesh against flesh.

John only ever uses his hand. He wants to do this right, after all.

\-----

The worst punishment he can dole out is to take it off prematurely. To remove the collar from Sherlock's neck, hand it back to him, and leave the flat for an hour or two.

Sherlock protested vociferously the first few times. "Isn't this the whole point of the exercise?" he had railed, pale eyes flashing fire. "Isn't it _obvious_ that I still need instruction?"

After that, it had been texts, which John didn't acknowledge.

 _Ignoring the problem. Not a solution  
SH_

 

Your definition of discipline is erroneous  
SH

 

Not learning a damn thing  
SH

 

And finally:

 _Come home_

 

Please

 

Sherlock doesn't go so far any more. He's memorised exactly where the borderlines are.

\-----

He's never worn it on a case before, but Lestrade's message is urgent, and Sherlock doesn't seem to notice. Winds his scarf about his neck, grabs his coat, and is out the door; and John is caught up in his enthusiasm.

It's not pretty. A husband and wife murdered; the man savagely torn to pieces while the woman was made to watch, tied to a chair. Her neck was snapped afterwards, a clean break. Their four-year-old daughter is missing.

Sherlock is up and down, restless, searching; asking Lestrade a million questions that seem to be unrelated. Anderson is rolling his eyes, making derisive comments under his breath to no one in particular, and Sherlock's irritation is palpable.

"Anderson!" he finally snaps. "Your voice is like nails on a blackboard! How the hell can I _think_ when…"

"Sherlock," John says quietly, a warning, and puts his hand on the back of his neck. To everyone else in the room, it seems a casual gesture of concern; but it makes leather press into flesh, hidden beneath his scarf, and Sherlock stills. He huffs in disgust and turns back to the corpses, leaving Anderson staring bemusedly in the doorway.

"Anderson, keep it to yourself," Lestrade orders, glancing sidelong at John with a seemingly newfound appreciation.

In a matter of seconds, Sherlock bolts for the door, leaving fragments of reasoning too fast and too disjointed for anyone else to understand in his wake. John starts to follow, as is his instinct, but is stopped by Lestrade's hand on his arm.

"Look, I don't know how you do it," the man says, conspiratorially, "but keeping that madman under control? You deserve a _medal_."

John isn't sure what to say to that. He wonders what would happen if he told Lestrade the truth.

\-----

They find the girl's body three days later. Her kidnapper lies dead beside her, self-inflicted gunshot to the head. The case is closed.

Sherlock hasn't slept, has scarcely stopped moving since it began. He's still pacing now, practically tearing his hair out because he _missed something_ , because he wasn't quick enough, because…

It's bad enough that Donovan is looking concerned. Lestrade is doing his best to avoid eye contact with everyone, but John can see how upset he is. How disappointed.

No one tells Sherlock _you couldn't possibly have known._

They don't believe it any more than he would.

"Sherlock," John says, voice rusty with exhaustion. "Let's go, yeah?" It's a suggestion he hardly hopes his flatmate will listen to.

But Sherlock stops for a moment, and stares at John with a look that's impossible to interpret. His fingers drift to his throat, resting there for a long moment, and it's funny; John had completely forgotten he still had the collar on.

Lestrade waves them off, makes a distracted comment about getting statements from them later, but neither Sherlock nor John are paying him any attention.

"Sherlock," he repeats, a touch more authoritative. "I think it's for the best."

"Fine," Sherlock answers, turning on his heel, coat billowing dramatically as he walks away.

But when John catches up, when the police are nothing but a glare in the distance, he puts his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades, and Sherlock leans into the touch like it's the only thing holding him up.

\-----

Back at the flat, John makes the mistake of collapsing in the armchair instead of tackling the second flight of stairs to his bedroom. His eyelids are impossibly heavy, and he's nearly resolved to just sleep here. He's mostly there already.

"Well?" Sherlock demands, loud and strident, and John is entirely too knackered to cope with that tone.

"Well, what?" he mumbles back, reluctantly slitting his eyes open.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room, hands and arms outstretched in a gesture that clearly says _isn't it obvious?_.

To John's sleep deprived brain, it isn't.

Sherlock sighs heavily, impatiently. "I'm still wearing it, aren't I?"

"Oh!" John springs up as comprehension dawns, and really, he _must_ be tired. "Bloody hell, I'm sorry," he says, reaching out. "Here, turn around, let me…"

"That is _not_ what I meant." Sherlock draws back, arms crossed over his chest. He looks offended somehow, and John has no idea what's going on.

"What?"

"I have misbehaved," says Sherlock, perfectly serious.

John makes a surprised little sound that might have intended to be a laugh. "No, you haven't," he assures. "I've been with you the entire time, and the circumstances were _certainly_ not…"

" _John_ ," Sherlock cuts him off, and his eyes are so intense, so grave that John falls silent. "I was _wrong._ "

He says it like a man bravely confessing to the most appalling crime imaginable. John supposes that, in his mind, he is.

"No," John says, decisive.

"I _was_ ," Sherlock insists, something desperate clawing its way into his expression. He closes his hands around John's shoulders, holding him in place.

"I'm not going to punish you." He's not, because that's ridiculous. "No one can be right all of the time. Not even you." And if that last comes across as a little vicious, John refuses to feel bad about it. He's so _tired_.

Sherlock rocks back on his heels. For a second, he looks like he's been slapped. Then he rallies, narrows his eyes at John, and advances.

"I could have saved her, John. That little girl is dead because of me."

" _Don't,_ " John hisses between clenched teeth, suddenly furious. "Don't you pretend that you care about her to get to me. How _dare_ you…" He stops himself, forces his hand to release the rumpled black fabric of Sherlock's shirt, and he doesn't even remember reaching out for it.

He expects Sherlock to look smug; expects him to be wearing that serene half-smile he always does when he gets his way. But he isn't. His eyes are sunken and hollow, no trace of color in them. He looks as tired as John feels.

He looks trapped.

Sherlock says his name, and all John hears is "please."

He takes a deep breath, runs his hands back over his head, and exhales. "Go upstairs to my room," he orders. "Take off your clothes and lie down on the bed. Face down. Wait for me."

He thinks, for a mad moment, that Sherlock is going to kiss him for it. "Yes, John," he breathes, a broken sigh.

John heads into the kitchen and makes a cup of tea, more for the routine of it than the thing itself.

It's too much to hope that Sherlock will be asleep by the time he gets upstairs, but John hopes it anyway.

\-----

Sherlock is still awake, but only just, stretched out on John's unmade bed with his arms folded under his head; the collar's silver buckle glinting faintly through the fall of his dark hair.

John's never seen Sherlock in his room before. Not like this.

He pulls off his jumper, lets it fall to the floor; he'll deal with it later. His shirt is unbuttoned and halfway down his arms when he realizes Sherlock is watching him. He drops it, too, starts working on his belt.

"John?" Sherlock asks, clearly nervous.

"Relax," John says. "Believe me, sex is the _last_ thing on my mind right now."

Sherlock settles, but still seems uncertain. John, stripped down to his boxers, climbs onto the bed next to him and strokes a hand down Sherlock's back; slow and soothing. He doesn't know what Sherlock is expecting him to do, but he can feel from the way the man is still bracing himself that this isn't it.

Too bad.

John brings his hand up to Sherlock's neck, digging his fingers into the muscle and forcing it to relax. When the tension there is mostly gone, he moves to the shoulders, first one and then the other. It's a little awkward, lying on his side and doing this one handed, but he knows where to touch and how hard to press. It's all right.

Sherlock turns his head to look at him, somehow managing to look indignant and half-asleep at the same time. "John, what are you…"

"Be quiet, and close your eyes," John orders, and he does so.

John slides his hand up into Sherlock's hair, threading his fingers through it; gently working out the tangles of three days' exertion. Sherlock sighs softly despite himself, and John can feel him relax, feel his breathing begin to even out.

"I thought," Sherlock murmurs, nearly inaudible, "that you were going to punish me."

"This is your punishment," John says fondly. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock obeys without another word.

John waits for a long while, just watching Sherlock sleep, making sure he's well and truly out before he takes the collar off. He places it on the bedside table, and wonders what Sherlock will think when he wakes up. Wonders if he might not be better off going back downstairs to sleep on the couch, aching back and bad leg be damned, psychosomatic or not.

He falls asleep thinking about it, and sleeps so deeply that he doesn't dream.

\-----

When he wakes the next morning, Sherlock is gone, as he fully expected. He's glad for it, actually, as it saves him quite a bit of awkwardness.

What they have is what they have, but sharing a bed… it seems intimate, personal in a way that they're _not_. He's not sure how to feel about it.

His phone buzzes, and he reaches for it on the bedside table out of habit; even though he's certain he left it downstairs yesterday. But there it is, anyway, right where the collar had been.

 _With Lestrade. Back later. Coffee in the kitchen.  
SH_

John laughs out loud. It seems like they're just fine.

\-----

"Why brown?" John asks one night; and it's completely out of nowhere, but he's been curious.

"Mm?" Sherlock inquires absently, not looking up from his laptop.

"The collar," John clarifies. "I would've thought you'd prefer black leather over brown."

"I would," says Sherlock, still working. "And I do."

John cocks his head. "Then why…?"

" _You_ don't," Sherlock answers, then looks up at him with an expression that's all smug mischief.

He shouldn't be surprised. He _really_ shouldn't.


End file.
